


Two

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-02-01 01:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12693894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: When all is said and done, Gandalf has one more thing to find before he sails home.





	Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solarfox123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarfox123/gifts).



> A/N: This is a gift for auniverseforgotten, who donated to the Center for Animal Research and Education for my [karma commissions drive](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/167176922380/karma-commissions) and requested “after the ring is destroyed evil is vanquished, Gandalf gets ready to head back to Valinor but just can't find Radagast/goes to get Radagast and brings him home. Or maybe just a fic on their relationship from Gandalf's POV”. (I choose to believe there are quokkas in Middle Earth.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Mirkwood, as it now stands, is full of noise, the better kinds now that the shadow’s left it. Hulking spiders still linger, and bloodthirsty rats still slither through the underbrush, but in lesser quantities, and not all the black shapes that scurry to and fro bear eyes of red. Now the careful trot of dear, the busy happenings of squirrels overhead, and the rustling bouquets of velvet butterflies are about again. Gandalf listens past all of them, straining his dulling senses for another kind of voice. His partner is a wanderer, and Radagast could be anywhere that the ground is green and brown trunks are around them. 

When he comes at last to the little hobbled shack that Radagast has claimed, he’s displeased to find it empty, even though he knew there was every possibility of it. It looks somehow both well lived in and abandoned, littered with holes and nests alike. Radagast’s many friends skitter about the floor and furniture, a pair of fat bushtits twittering from the rafters and a triumvirate of wombats lumbering across the counters. A few look up at Gandalf when he steps inside, but most carry on their business. Some have seen him before, no doubt, others not, but animals have always recognized his kind better than those that walk on two legs. They tell him, in their own ways, that Radagast is abroad, and so Gandalf continues through the forest, West to where the elves lie.

The elves know little of Radagast, though he lives within their borders more often than not. Gandalf has never felt the need to tell Thranduil of this, but he asks now if they’ve seen any old, wizened figures cast in brown wandering amidst their woods. They haven’t in some time, and though they offer to send scouts, Gandalf lifts his hand. Radagast is his responsibility, always has been, in one way or another, and continues to be so now. He’ll look on his own, and he leaves up to Dale. It’s encouraging to see how the place has valiantly survived, after all it’s been through, but that isn’t enough to lift Gandalf’s spirits. He’s through with the great deeds of Men, and elves, and dwarves and even hobbits. He wants only one thing now, that and rest, but he won’t have one without the other. 

He checks Rhosgobel again, finds it just as occupied and sadly barren, and winds, instead, towards the Carrock. His partner will be _somewhere_ , and if anyone can find him, it will be Gandalf. It always was. While most else has faded, he still has distant memories of Yavanna’s twinkling voice, asking him where in Valinor has her servant gotten off to now. Gandalf, Olórin, then, would always find him, and bring him home, and Yavanna would chuckle her thanks, and Gandalf would promise _any time_ , and look forward to the next occasion where he would have nothing more to do than seek out Aiwendil’s softer beauty.

He’s only just left the forest, far too many nights and days into his search, when the call of a sparrow draws him back. He follows its tidings, trusting to that, down along the southern curve of sagging trees, until at last he smells a wisp of smoke. Another long walk, and he comes close enough to see—his aged partner stooped against a log, with many fluffy quokkas circling his perch. Their happy smiles seem all the brighter for his humming and murmuring, and the odd shapes he puffs out of his pipe. A few near the outer reaches are aimlessly munching on leaves, but the closer ones watch him avidly, and he talks to them in turn. He scratches one behind the ear, pats another’s rich fur, and draws a third up into his lap, where it curiously sniffs at his beard. None of them seem frightened when Gandalf approaches, and two even come to nuzzle his robes when he stops just an arm’s length away.

Radagast looks up then, as though he’s only just remembered the rest of the world outside his little club. Then his eyes go wide, and he says in mystified delight, “Gandalf.”

“Radagast,” Gandalf greets, as he’s done in recent times, though he remembers all the names his partner’s ever had. Radagast looks about for a moment, pulling out his pipe only to put it back, patting down his robes, picking up the quokka in his lap as though to move it aside, but Gandalf settles down beside him so he won’t have to rise. Radagast smiles appreciatively for it, putting out his piper properly, and he reaches over to give Gandalf the chaste sort of half-hug that they might’ve done when they were new and didn’t fully understand their bodies.

They both know better now. They learned the ins and outs of these physical forms with each other’s company, in between chores for their respective masters and the ever-present need to see their world. This is the farthest they’ve explored, though there are still lands to the East that Gandalf’s never seen. Once, he dreamed of walking there with Aiwendil, to see what other birds and trees and folk they could find.

But they’re old now, old in a way only Middle Earth could bring, and as Gandalf reluctantly detangles himself from Radagast’s embrace, he says, “We have won, you know. All is settled. Mairon has been vanquished, Melkor’s hold is dying, and at last our job is done.”

Radagast’s cheeks stain faintly pink, his deep eyes falling away. Gandalf had expected more delight than that, but Radagast sheepishly murmurs, “Yours, perhaps. I did very little.” His gaze lifts again, and he explains, “I wish I could have ridden at your side, Gandalf, but of course—”

“You are a gentle soul not meant for battle,” Gandalf chuckles, cutting him right off. “And you helped in your own ways.”

Radagast doesn’t look so sure. But Gandalf presses on, “It is time, now, to return home.” 

And then Radagast’s eyes widen again, lighting up with genuine surprise, and he murmurs, “Home?”

“Across the sea.”

“Oh...”

A tentative hand lifts to Radagast’s face, touching the sharp wrinkles that now cut across his face. His beard and hair are both a mess, as they’ve long been, his heavy hat a sight for sore eyes. He mutters, almost to himself, “I have gotten quite used to being old.”

Around a growing smile and a pang of understanding, Gandalf notes, “You may well still be so on the farther shores.”

Radagast lets out another, “Oh,” and semi-wilts again. He asks Gandalf forlornly, “Will you love me still?”

There’s never been such a question in Gandalf’s mind, for he’s always known the answer. He lets that confidence into his voice as he teases, “So long as you are still so adorably silly.”

Radagast smiles, light and lovely. He muses, “I always drove Curumo mad.”

“All the better.” That’s only another reminder that their kind no longer has any place in Middle Earth. Gandalf gives himself a little push off the warm earth and lifts to his feet again, standing not-so-tall above his partner, hand outstretched. He says, “It is time to go.”

“Now?” Radagast asks. When Gandalf only nods, he looks aside at the quokka sitting on the log behind him. The one in his arms hops onto his other thigh, up on two legs with its little paws lifted as it peers so trustingly and amiably at him. Radagast lovingly gathers the creature up in his arms, then slowly rises whilst cradling it close to his heart. 

Gandalf hates having to tell him, “I am sorry, Radagast, but you cannot take them with you.”

“Not even Trevor?” Radagast asks, looking struck.

“Not even Trevor,” Gandalf confirms. He reaches forward to take the quokka from Radagast’s arms, instead carefully lowering into the grass, where it meanders around Radagast’s robes as though expecting a treat. Radagast looks very much like he would like to give one, but the world is different in Valinor, as are the leaves, and diets born of Middle Earth aren’t meant for that.

Radagast tells him, “Oh, no, that is Stephen. Trevor is a hare. I cannot even bring Stephen, then?”

Sighing, Gandalf reminds him, “They are of Middle Earth, Radagast, and they do not belong in the Undying Lands. ...I am sorry. But you do know that.”

He does. He frowns, looking sadly down at all his pleasant friends, but he does mumble, “Very well.”

Half to soothe him and half because it’s been entirely too long, Gandalf ducks forward to kiss his cheek. Radagast chuckles, perhaps at the way Gandalf’s beard must tickle, and Gandalf orders: “Cheer up. There are many things to love in the Undying Land, and many other friends you have not seen in too long.”

“Ah, yes, I had quite forgotten the chevrotain!” Radagast bursts, brightening like a grand gem. “How I’ve missed the little dears!” He already appears wistful and enamoured, and Gandalf finds himself looking quite forward to all the many reunions to come—not just with Eönwë, and his other friends, but with each creature that will still remember Radagast, having lived on outside of time. 

Partially to keep them out of trouble and partially again out of want, Gandalf takes one of Radagast’s hands in his. He rubs his thumb across the aged back and asks, “Shall we?”

“Yes,” Radagast starts, turning towards the horizon, only to stop again and tell Gandalf quietly, happily, “Gandalf... thank you for not forgetting me.”

“I never did,” Gandalf promises. Touched, his heart seems to swell, and for once, he lets the emotion he feels inside show across his face. He lets Radagast see every ounce of his love, every second that he’s spent missing this, every wish he’s ever had to simply come back and lie beside his lover beneath the stars. He promises, “Despite all my other business and many chores, I was only ever free to do so because I knew that you were right here, safe and sound, full of warmth and support. But I would never dream of sailing West without my partner at my side.”

Radagast squeezes Gandalf’s hand. Then he kisses him properly, like they haven’t done in years, and Gandalf flares with the ancient will of _Olórin_ , wanting nothing more but peace and _this_ : his lovely Aiwendil waiting sweetly in his arms. 

Together, changed into old men but nothing truly less for it, the two of them totter off towards the sea.


End file.
